


take it from day to day

by athenasdragon



Series: Terror Vignettes [1]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, There's no comfort with this hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:47:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24584053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athenasdragon/pseuds/athenasdragon
Summary: James grieves Sir John's death. Alone.
Relationships: Captain Sir John Franklin & Commander James Fitzjames
Series: Terror Vignettes [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1970878
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15





	take it from day to day

**Author's Note:**

> Losing a mentor sucks.
> 
> Title from the Stan Rogers song "Take it from Day to Day," which I highly recommend if you enjoy sad Arctic expedition vibes.

When the bustle of things dies do—falls away, James is left alone in the great cabin. In Sir John’s great cabin. Francis has agreed to one day of mourning before the rescue party sets out, and James is not so delusional as to believe that Francis missed the personal nature of the plea. They all saw him, watched him fall to his knees on the ice and scream his throat raw, watched him stagger back to the _Erebus_ in a daze amid the scramble to get everyone back aboard.

He sits now in his habitual chair, head in his hands, and stares down somewhere a long way below his boots. This isn’t possible, he reminds himself. Sir John is often up on deck at this time, and in a few minutes his footsteps will sound on the stairs and he will appear in the doorway. This is perfectly normal. Because the alternative—that James watched the last trace of his coat disappear into the black water and saw that single leg lying obscene and bloody against the ice—is unimaginable. The memory is clear enough, but to believe that it happened as he remembers is to believe that Sir John is gone and James is the commander of HMS _Erebus_ , and neither of those things can be true.

He waits. Minutes pass. No sound.

When the muscles in his hands start to protest how tightly he grips his hair, he sits up and lets his shaking arms rest in his lap. This cannot be. _This cannot be_. It is inconceivable. And yet so many parts of this voyage have been beyond anything he could have conceived.

Despite his denial, practicals keep seeping in at the edges. There will have to be a speech, of course, but it will be Francis who gives it. How will Francis inform the men of the _Terror_? No matter now. There will be time to fill in details tomorrow. He should sleep now so that his mind will be clear enough to support the men.

The grief hits him again in a wave and his chest _aches_. He grinds his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to contain tears already determined to spill over. There will be no reprieve, James knows from experience. He has never been adept at healing these wounds. Consuming, desperate sorrow will lap at him infinitely, each throb bearable in the moment but the endless assault wearing him down with time. The only victory available to him will be not to show it.

So he presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, swallows the exhausted sound trying to claw its way out of his chest, and rises to undress mechanically for bed.


End file.
